Irrevocable
by Sword of the Shadow
Summary: Sequel to Irredeemable. A monster tightening his grip. A shattered boy realising just how radical his Faustian bargain was. Everything changed, but in the end, his choices are still irrevocable. NOT hp/lv
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome to the sequel to _Irredeemable_. Please note that this story is going to be more graphic and mature than its predecessor, though I have no intention of flouting FFN's guidelines.**

* * *

Irrevocable

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

_Harry ran. He didn't pay attention to the tree roots that tried to trip him, to the men in elaborate masks and the women in ball gowns that snatched at his arms, laughing as they trailed sinful hands down his arms and thighs. There was only the hurried gasps of his breath, the rhythmic pumping of his legs and the crunch of glass and leaves as he fled._

_And the harsh pants of the blindingly white dogs that chased him, red mouths foaming, red ears perked, red eyes glinting in the dim light that filtered through the canopy of stained glass and oak trees._

"_Harry," the wind sighed, and he forced himself to run faster, the air burning his lungs._

_The brimstone breath was suddenly scorching the back of his neck, and he was falling, the hound on top of him, barking as he pinned him to the ground. Harry threw his body from side to side, thrashing, trying desperately to dislodge the massive weight. He scrambled backwards, back thumping painfully into the rough bark of a wide tree trunk. And suddenly, he was too tired to move, and the hound knew it._

_His tongue lolled out of his mouth, sharp, wicked teeth glinting as he approached, eyes whirling with excitement. He was about to complete his mission, fulfill his quest. Harry tried to glance away, but the beast's excitement was only too evident. Some of the dogs caustic spittle burned a hole through his Hogwarts robes, the Gryffindor tie disintegrating in a sizzling burst of blood red saliva. That mouth, those teeth, which really qualified as fangs anyway, were so close to his face that they might as well have been touching, and suddenly the dog reared back, poised on his hind legs, ready to strike-_

_And there was no transition whatsoever, but the tree trunk was replaced by a headboard and the rough roots by smooth sheets. The burning breath of the dog was gone, but the stink of corruption remained, and Harry couldn't make himself open his eyes._

"_You never let them bite me," he commented, the words as close to a question as any he could bring himself to phrase. "Your hell hounds, or whatever they are. I've already been bitten by one thing, surely another can't be that bad."_

"_Oh, but Harry," the man whispered, and it was a tribute to the quality of the mattress that he felt no shifting, had no warning until he was already trapped once more, "I have no need to infect you. I am already a part of you, after all." _

"_You're dead," Harry countered, and he didn't open his eyes, because maybe then, if he couldn't see the man, his statement would be true. "Dead dead dead."_

_And the arms of a granite angel wrapped him to the hard, carved lines of a perfectly formed chest, the long feathered wings only half successful in shielding him from the covetous gaze of a giant white serpent. _

"_Expecting a seraphim to come and help you, little serpent? Where is your holy protector, your Michael and his flaming sword, come to cast the Lord of the Morning down from the heavens?"_

_Harry didn't understand half of what the snake was hissing, but he understood enough. "Draco will save me. He always does."_

_And the angel's face shifted, and suddenly it was not the imposing, perfect face of an unreachable being, but the familiar and human one of Draco. The feathered wings where transformed to those of a dragon, and Harry relaxed in the embrace._

"_Oh, but your little Draco can't save you from me," the serpent hissed, and Harry found himself wrapped in endless white coils, the scales smooth against his bare skin. He struggled, but the snake only wrapped itself around him all the more tightly, the grip strong enough to bruise, to make breathing a conscious effort. "He can't save you from yourself," the snake continued in a voice that clearly implied that the two were the same thing._

"_Wake up, wake up!" he commanded himself with more than a hint of panic in his voice, the warm friction from the rub of scales on skin becoming impossible to ignore. _

"_Oh, you won't wake until I decide," a pair of red eyes declared, and the tail that was fondling his thighs turned into a pair of long-fingered hands mid-stroke. "After all, this isn't a dream."_

"_Of course not," he muttered, curling into himself. "It's a bloody nightmare."_

"_One would have thought," the monster remonstrated, curling his body around Harry's, entwining their limbs so they spiraled together into nothingness, "that after the Department of Mysteries you would have learned the difference between dreams and reality."_

"_Go 'way," he ordered, too tired to continue, to think about all his failures, all the times he had fallen. _

"_When will you learn," the red eyes hissed, and Harry realised as the tone grew harsh and cruel that before the words had been loving caresses, "that I am _not _'going away.' I will not leave you alone. You are _mine_, Harry Potter." The voice was everywhere, insistent, a thick miasma that was fighting to enter through his nose, his mouth, his ears, to wrap about his brain and choke him._

"No," he whimpered, waiting to feel Draco's arms around him as he huddled in the middle of the bed, shuddering. But there was no warmth enfolding him, no whispered words of comfort. "Draco?" Wrapping his own arms tightly around his torso in a pale imitation of comfort, he turned to the other side of the bed.

For a moment, Harry's mind froze. Draco was screaming. But it was a frozen scream, like a painting. He was cold, his skin like ice. And that scream... the scream that he _knew_ would be etched on the back of his eyelids forever.

And Draco wasn't breathing, and Harry realised that he wasn't either.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Harry pulled the gray blanket tighter around him, but it did nothing to warm him. Neither did the mug of hot water the officer had handed him along with a cheap teabag. He hadn't even added the bag to the water yet. He just stared straight ahead.

Dead.

Draco was dead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


His mind was blank. How could Draco be

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


dead?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Mr. Potter?" Harry didn't move.

"and he seems to have suffered from a brain aneurysm, which-"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dead.

"caused his sudden-"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"I'm sorry to say that it was virtually undetectable-"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dead.

"your loss."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Harry blinked.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There was a doctor standing in front of him, a clipboard held to his chest. He had large grey eyebrows.

Dead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"in shock."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dead.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dead.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

"Oh, Harry."

Hermione ran to the small, huddled figure, cradling him in her arms.

"He's dead," Harry informed her dully, rocking back in forth. "He's dead."

"I know, darling, I know." She smoothed the fringe away from his eyes, baring the scar on his forehead. It stood out on his forehead, angry and jagged, the edges red and peeling. Hermione drew in a sharp breath, but didn't mention it. They could deal with that later.

"He shouldn't have died," Harry said, voice devoid of emotion. "He was the good one. I should have died."

"Don't say that, Harry, don't say that."

He turned red eyes towards her. "It's true. He's dead. He's dead." He began to rock again. Hermione brought a hand up to cup his cheek, only to pull it back sharply. There, in the center of her palm, were two pinpricks of blood.

The silver serpent on his cheek winked at her.

"What happened, Harry?" she tried to ask, but her voice came out harsh, demanding. She curled her hand up into a ball, hiding the wound.

"Nightmare," he muttered in a small voice. "Same's always. He won't leave me alone. He won't ever leave me alone. And then I woke up, and he was gone."

"Voldemort?"

Harry shook his head. "Draco. Voldemort just laughed. He's still laughing."

"He's gone, Harry. He's just a dream; he can't hurt you. He's not real.

But the blood on her hand and the look in Harry's eyes said differently.

* * *

Harry sat on the couch of their-his, now- flat. The telly was on, the screen displaying the fuzzy, black and white image of a cemetery. His eyes were dry. He didn't have any more tears. He didn't have anything left.

_I killed him._

Draco was dead. It was all his fault.

The clock in the flat above chimed four times. It was too loud. Draco had yelled about it. He always forgot to put up the silencing charms. Harry had laughed at him, telling him that his wand wasn't much good if he couldn't remember to use it. He wasn't laughing now.

His own wand lay on the table before him. He hadn't cleaned it in years. Ever, actually. He remembered scrubbing at it with a bit of his jumper before he'd handed it to Ollivander. Did that count as cleaning?

"They're coming for you, Barbara!"

"_I'm coming for you, Harry!"_

"No," he said aloud as the woman struggled with an Inferius. Zombie. He had to start acting like a Muggle now. The Wizarding world hadn't been safe for him for a long time, since the moment he'd been born, actually. But now magic wasn't safe, either.

_I _killed _him!_

He reached for his wand with hands that didn't shake. He held the piece of wood before his face for a moment, lost in the memories.

**Snap.**

He didn't even twitch, at least not on the outside. He felt his magic shaking, bucking like a stag caught by a snare. Out, out, out! _No,_ he told it firmly. It was too dangerous.

He'd promised himself that he wouldn't kill anymore. Not after Voldemort, after Dumbledore. Not since he'd killed Ginny and Fred and George and Tonks and Dudley and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and- The list kept going. Hundreds of people. More than Voldemort? He doubted it. Maybe directly. Voldemort let other people do the killing for him. Let Harry do the killing for him.

And then he'd killed Draco. For Voldemort.

He'd performed one final spell when he'd recovered, after Hermione had brought him back to the flat. The doctors at the Muggle hospital couldn't bring him out of his shock. Hermione had. Harry didn't know how she'd known to come, but she had. He wished she hadn't. He wasn't in shock anymore, and she was in danger now. She'd always been too smart for her own good.

He threw the pieces of the wand back to the table, not caring that they clattered. It was nothing more than a few broken bits of wood and a singed red-orange feather. No one could see what magic it had done now, not anymore. Not like he had. _Prior incantato._

His wand had killed Draco. Not a blood clot in his head, like the heale- doctors- thought. He had. The evidence had been right there in front of them. Him. It was just him. No one else had been there. No one else was here now.

He tried to focus on the telly once more. Zombies were flooding the house, biting as many people as they could. He shivered. They were just like him. Killing indiscriminately, without remorse.

_Not anymore. I won't kill anymore. I don't have a wand, now, so I can't kill anyone._

But... what if he did? Was he destined to kill everyone?

_Hermione_.

He'd kill her, too, if he let her get close. Everyone Voldemort wanted dead died eventually, and usually at the end of Harry's wand. And Voldemort had ordered him to kill her.

_Mudblood._

He wouldn't let her die, too. Especially not if he were to be the one who killed her. He just couldn't see her again, ever. That wouldn't be too hard, he could live alone. He'd manage, somehow. Anything, any sacrifice was worth it, so he wouldn't kill again.

_Draco! Draco's dead! I killed him._

He closed his eyes and slumped to one side, cheek pressed against the rough weave of the cushion. Maybe he shouldn't sleep. Draco had died when he was asleep. If he had stayed awake, would Draco still be alive? Maybe.

He tried to force his eyes open, swiping at them to stop their itching. He wouldn't fall asleep. He would stay awake, stay in control.

His eyes fluttered once more, and this time he couldn't bring himself to open them again.

_Rip. Tear. Kill._


	4. Chapter 4

**Right. So I know this is ridiculously late, and... zomg I haven't updated this in over a year! I honestly didn't think it had been that long. Oopps... Well, blame real life. And my terrible immune system. I have plenty of good excuses, but I'm guessing that if you're still going to read this after so long without an update, you'll want to have at it.**

* * *

"Oh, Harry." Hermione sighed.

"You say that so often." He lay on his side, pillow stuffed roughly under his head, eyes on the flashing screen of the telly. "You seen this? _Doctor Who_. Dudley used to hide behind the couch. But that could have been because he stashed his biscuits back there."

Hermione exhaled roughly, moving to sit primly in the armchair, tactfully ignoring the boxes of take-home scattered on the floor. She glanced at the table, trying to think of what to say to make him better. Nothing came to mind.

Her eyes lit on a bit of bright vermillion in the heap of tissues and half empty cola bottles. She reached for it slowly, her gut twisting. Somewhere deep inside her a voice cried in pain and sympathy.

Phoenix feather. A brilliant red-orange plume, still attached to a few broken bits of holly.

"Your wand!"

Harry didn't even flinch, refused to look at her. He kept his gaze fastened on the telly. "I think I'm a Dalek," he commented abruptly. Hermione raised her eyebrows in confusion, but of course he couldn't see that.

"What are you talking about?"

"They kill. Everyone."

"But you're not like that anymore. You changed; that was almost a year ago. You're better now."

"No. Not better. Worse. Before, he only had my body. Now he has my mind."

"You're stronger than that, Harry!" Hermione argued, rising to her feet. "You're an Occlumens, and he's dead. They're just nightmares. Voldemort is dead, he's not alive, and he's NOT IN YOUR HEAD!" She fell to the floor, her jeans now stained with rotting Chinese and rancid pizza. She hiccuped loudly, cradling her head in her arms. "He can't be back!"

"I killed Draco."

It was sudden, but the words were honest, lacking any remorse or emotion. She glanced up into his face. The pain was in his evident everywhere a giant, aching agony reflected a thousand times in his emerald eyes.

"That's why I broke my wand. No more magic. Not safe, not safe. You're not safe. You should leave, before I kill you too." His voice was broken, the wretchedness in his eyes now overshadowed by calm certainty.

"It's okay, I can help-" she started to rise, a hand reaching out to cup his cheek, but the movement was cut short by a roaring hiss, a full-throated sound caught halfway between a lion and a snake.

"You can't help _anything_," he screamed, fists clenched, "much less me. Get out of here, now! You can only make things worse." He still hadn't gotten up from the couch.

Hermione started, feet carrying her towards the door faster than her mind could process the movement. her hand was on the latch, sliding the bolt out of place before she realised what she was doing.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she rasped, fumbling for the door handle. "I'm so sorry, Harry, it's not fair, I-" and she was out the door, slamming it behind her, racing for the stairs and the street.

* * *

Harry pulled at the collar of his robe, hating the way it scratched at his neck. It felt odd to be in wizard-wear again, uncomfortable. He'd never liked the feel of robes, especially not the formal ones so stiff with Stara's Stardust Starch that they might as well have been made of cardboard. He rubbed at his neck underneath the collar again, weary eyes watching the sparse crowds of gawking gossip-mongers. He had yet to see anyone who actually knew him, let alone knew Draco. Knew them well, that is, not read the articles about them. ("Redeemed Bad-Boy-Who-Lived," "Potter and Malfoy Move to Muggle London, Aurors Concerned," "Dumbledore's Killers Run Free," and the only one he had bothered to send a Howler to, "Boy-Who-Lived to Fuck Death Eaters and Fuck Over World"). Of course, most of those that knew them were hiding, dead, or might as well be, but he'd hoped for...

He didn't know. Hoped for someone who knew Draco as a person, not as the cardboard cut-out synonym for Death Eater that everyone had seen him as.

Hermione was here, as she'd promised (threatened) to be. He'd ignored her, staring past her as he looked out from his place beside the pyre. Ignored her as he'd watched Draco's body burn, watched the horrible screaming face that the morticians had been unable to erase completely disappear under wreaths of hot flame. No one had said anything besides the most basic funeral rites. Draco hadn't had any nice speeches. Not like Ginny. Or Dumbledore, whose funeral had lasted for three days. Who would speak for him? Only Harry, and Harry was the one who had killed him.

Hermione rose from her seat, leaving Neville to sit awkwardly alone. He nodded at Harry, and Harry nodded back. Hermione was coming closer, slowly, inexorably. She was only a few feet away, and Harry's throat constricted.

"Thank you for coming," he squeaked, turning to the left, hoping that someone would be standing there, if only so he wouldn't have to talk to Hermione. He didn't care if it was Rita Skeeter with a new and improved Quik Quotes Quill (even more maudlin exaggerations!)

"I wouldn't have missed it. Draco is-was- a dear friend." The blond smiled sadly, but Harry didn't see anything at all fake about it. "I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sure he meant a lot to you."

"Parkinson?" She nodded with a sorrowful look in her blue eyes..

"Please, call me Pansy." She tucked a blonde ringlet behind her ear. Her nose was still pug-shaped, but judiciously applied make-up charms made her, if not beautiful, then at least moderately pretty. Harry continued to stare at her for what seemed like interminable moments, completely ignoring- even forgetting- Hermione standing at his elbow, tapping her heels against the flagstones impatiently.

"I'm glad you came," he told her sincerely, clutching at her hands, feeling the need to have an anchor, someone who understood. "To have someone who knew him..." He paused again, awkwardly letting go of her hands and letting his arms drop to his sides. "Thank you."

Pansy looked briefly from side to side, not even feigning her disgust. "For them to treat this like it's a carnival, or a freak show is abhorrent. I find the whole affair rather distasteful. It's bad form to come to such a solemn event for the sole purpose of gawking at the bereaved." Her lips curled in disgust, an expression so reminiscent of Draco that a sob caught in his throat. She smirked, looking over Harry's shoulder. "Still, it is quite politic of you to appease their pathetic Gryffindor sensibilities."

"_Harry _is a Gryffindor," Hermione interjected tartly. Pansy simply smiled, studying Hermione's face with cool eyes.

"Though many would argue the point, you are correct, Granger. Harry _was_ a Gryffindor." Her eyes were frigid, one brow delicately arched in challenge.

"Please, not now. Not here." He turned to Hermione after Pansy' almost mocking nod. "Hermione, please leave. I don't want to hurt- I don't want anything to do with you!" His tone sharpened at the end, and he had a faint look of surprise on his face.

Hermione blinked, rubbing her eyes. Brow furrowed, she said nothing more, and just walked away muttering to herself under her breath. Harry almost felt sorry for the books she would tear through at whatever library she could find first.

"Thank you," he told Pansy again, unsure of what else to say. He opened his mouth to say more, but sudden exhaustion swamped him, lurching forward uncertainly. "I need... to leave," he gasped, barely noting Pansy's concerned frown or the parchment she pressed into his sweaty palm. He apparated abruptly, too tired to even marvel that he hadn't splinched himself as he fell into his bed.

* * *

"He was practically glowing, Neville. It hurt my eyes to looked at him." She stirred her ice cream, the entirety of which had long since melted. It would be wrong to sit at one of the tables at Fortescue's without buying anything, but, honestly, who wanted ice cream in the middle of winter? And she didn't know where else to go. The three of them had always met up here, before...

Neville licked at his own cone, one of those odd flavours you'd never find in the Muggle world. He met her gaze evenly, motioning for her to proceed, a dollop of ice cream sliding off the cone and into his lap.

"So of course I tried to find some books on it," she continued as Neville blushed and blotted at his trousers with a napkin, "but everything that seemed to fit at all was about divination and auras and all that nonsense. But surely you saw it, too?"

"I didn't notice anything, Hermione. And neither did anyone else; it'd be all anyone could talk about if Harry Potter started glowing like a _lumos_ in the middle of a funeral." The tip of his wand briefly flared in his pocket, and he hurriedly whispered the counter-spell, hoping that no one had noticed his mistake.

"But he even _felt_ different," Hermione countered.

"Sounds like that divination nonsense to me." Neville grinned at Hermione's half-hearted glare. "Maybe you should talk to Professor Trewlaney. At the very least, she'll tell you that you have no inner eye. And it would rule out divination completely."

"Fine," Hermione huffed, pushing away her bowl. "Let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere near that place," Neville informed her, trying to eat his ice cream calmly despite his fumbling hands and blushing face. "Professor Snape is still teaching there, and I don't want to risk it. And Ron..." Neville broke off, looking down at his lap.

"Ron can go stuff himself." Hermione clasped her cloak tightly around her throat and swept out of the shop with hard, cold eyes, telling herself that she was only imagining the tightness in her throat and the sudden moisture in her eyes.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**So here we are, a brand new chapter posted only a day (give or take a few hours) after my last, hot of the NeoOffice word processor. To be perfectly honest, I feel like a naughty kid handing her parents a vase held together with silly putty and scotch tape, smiling and trying to convince them that it doesn't matter that I did anything wrong. But, honestly, I'm trying to make up for it. There's even Draco in this chapter! No, it doesn't mean he's not still dead, or that I'm giving in to the crushing weight of pressure (this scene has been planned for awhile) but I suppose it is a bit of a reassurance (to me, leastaways) that I do know (vaguely) where I'm going with this. Yes, it does seem to be heading towards HP/LV, I know, but it's not, honestly. Sort of. There's nothing there but physical stuff and Voldemort's nefarious plans. Love does not enter into the equation. At all. But it's going to be so cool, if I can pull it off. **

**Oh, I've been rambling on and on about why I'm doing everything (look at my livejournal for the rambling, tangent-filled explanation of why I killed Draco) but, honestly, I may be posting it for you, but I wrote this story for me. And that's that. Even if I never get a single review for it ever again, I'm going to keep at it. May take me a while (read: forever) but I'm not abandoning it. Also, I won't feel at all annoyed or hurt if you don't believe me on that.**

**Alright, I'll stop rambling (no one's reading this anyway) and just post the damn thing already.**

This chapter is dedicated to my friend the thesaurus, and not dedicated to my sworn enemies, the words desparate and rhythm, which I still can't manage to spell correctly.

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

Harry looked at the piece of paper crumpled in his hand, if only to avoid looking at the building in front of him. He had it memorized, anyway.

_Mr. Potter,_

_ If you ever need to, please, come to me. If I can help, I will. Despite everything, I don't want to see you fall._

_ In hope,_

_ Narcissa Malfoy_

And he'd come. He'd only been to Malfoy Manor a handful of times in the past; Voldemort wanted to keep his pet near, and Lucius and Harry despised each other. He remembered it as beautiful, if rather cold. Not particularly inviting, but more forbidding than frightening. Now it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen.

Why was he here? What did he think he was going to do? What did he want? More importantly, what did Narcissa want, and could he give it to her?

His mind was blank, or perhaps had too many thoughts rushing about all at once for him to notice a single one. He'd killed her son, and she wanted revenge. But she didn't know that he'd killed Draco, did she? He'd only told Hermione, and Hermione hadn't believed him. She never did when it was important. Hermione wouldn't want him to come here now; she would lecture him in her McGonagall voice, the one that made him feel like he was a stupid first year caught doing something incredibly idiotic and Gryffindor.

_But I'm not friends with her anymore_, he reminded himself, one fist clenching tightly around nothing, half-wishing it was his wand that he was gripping, _because I can't protect her from myself_.

But Narcissa could manage. She'd grown up a Black, after all, and their motto really ought to have been _toujours sombre_. Maybe she could more than protect herself. Maybe she would stop him from hurting anyone else. Stop him from killing, even if it meant his own death.

Then he could be with Draco again.

His hand was raising the elegantly shaped door knocker before he realised he'd made his decision to enter the house, the fifty yards of carefully tended gardens he'd walked through nothing so much as even a passing thought.

And Narcissa was there, smiling sadly, just like Draco used to, looking at him with concern in her eyes, the same shape as Draco's. Before, he would have sworn that Draco was a clone of Lucius, the two Malfoys looked so alike... but now all he saw was the similarities between Narcissa and her son. The fineness of their cheekbones, how Draco's eyes were really more blue than grey, the fineness of that white blond hair he loved to run his fingers through.

He was clutching at her, suddenly, crying brokenly, trying to tell her that he'd killed her son, and maybe he hadn't loved him so much after all, if he could kill him like that, and maybe it wasn't Voldemort after all, because Voldemort was dead, he'd had to be dead, he'd killed him, why did he kill everyone, why wasn't she yelling at him, why didn't she hit him, curse him, kill him?

He felt her hand against his face, but the touch was too gentle to be the vicious, open-handed slap he really wanted.

"I don't care," she told him, meeting his watery gaze with a calm one of her own. "Draco loved you. He never loved anyone else, not even me. I wasn't able to give him love, and you did. It doesn't matter if you killed him or not; for a time, even for just one shining moment, he was loved."

"He said that?" he asked with a feeble smile. "Really?"

"He didn't have to."

And he smiled then, really smiled, the first time he remembered smiling in ages, since before Draco died, since before even the Battle of Hogwarts.

* * *

_Harry stumbled into the room, pulling Draco behind him, pushing him onto the bed. The blonde smelled of Firewhiskey; the scent made Harry dizzy, though he'd imbibed his fair share of alcohol. He giggled, unsure now of what they had been celebrating. All that mattered was that there was something to celebrate, that Draco's body was warm and his lips soft and full. _

_Remembering those soft lips, Harry descended on them once more, kissing him sloppily, grinning into Draco's mouth as the other boy moaned and wriggled._

"_Merlin, I can't believe I'm making out with my drunken enemy," he giggled, kissing Draco again for a long moment as if that would help him accept this was happening. "I feel like I'm positively taking... taking..." There was a longer pause this time. They parted, breathless, eyes glassy with liquor and lust. "Taking advantage of you," Harry finished quickly with a too-loud laugh._

"_Please." Draco raised one of his eyebrows, and Harry fought the sudden need to kiss it. "I'm a Malfoy. Is it more likely that I'm drunk, or that I accentuated the intoxication so you'd try to take advantage of me?" He smirked, the lingering vestiges of inebriation disappearing entirely as he rolled over so he was on top of Harry. "Or perhaps I only pretended- quite deviously, mind you- to be completely sauced so as to have you inebriated beyond all of hope of being able to resist my considerable charms. I think that I, dear Harry, am the one who seduced you. And I plan to take full advantage." He waggled his eyebrows in a parody of lechery, and this time Harry did kiss them, and anything else his questing lips could reach._

_Harry wasn't entirely certain what happened next, his mind in a daze. There was grinding, and snogging, and hands everywhere, and everything seemed just absolutely right, for the first time in forever._

"_Point taken," he panted, wondering how Draco still had the ability to use multi-syllable words, let alone construct full sentences._

"_We're tactics people," he mumbled with a predatory grin that had Harry grinning right back. "And the strategic thing to do here is-" He cut himself off with a fumbled oath, hand wrenching itself out of Harry's hair to clasp his own forearm. "Retreat, apparently," he hissed, glaring at the Dark Mark as if it had offended him personally. _

_Groaning, Harry tried to pull Draco back down, muttering something about later._

"_The Dark Lord doesn't wait on your libido, Harry," Draco informed him regretfully, stretching to reach his shirt that had somehow landed on the (thankfully) extinguished sconce._

"_He will for now," Harry grumbled rebelliously, tackling Draco to the floor, trying to make him forget about that bloody tattoo with all the skill his tongue possessed. "Fuck Voldemort," he advised._

"_What an absolutely brilliant idea, my sweet serpent," a pair of thin lips murmured against his own. _

_And suddenly everything was flipped, and the flagstones of his floor were the rough bricks of a wall, and he was the one pinned, the one moaning, and not the one thrusting and in control. _

Wrong! _his mind screamed at him. _This isn't what happened! It's Draco, Draco, not him, never him!

"_Always me, always you," Voldemort corrected, tongue flicking out towards Harry's ear, though it hadn't ever abandoned its task of sucking at his teeth, subduing his tongue. "Not Draco, never Draco."_

_Some part of him must have liked it, because although his mind shrieked and cowered, screaming _no!_ over and over again, his lips hissed _YESSSSS! _with twice the fervor of his denials, and he felt hot, like his skin was on fire; it wasn't the pleasant tingling that Draco's touch_

"Stop _thinking of _him!_" the voice enjoined harshly, the momentum increasing to unbearable levels, tongue in his ears, mouth, hands, chest, thighs, fingers stroking his brow, cheeks, ribs, arse, and something else that he couldn't quite bring himself to think about because if he did he would _explode_ rubbing, pounding frantically, the friction a burning inferno that threatened to consume him, to eat him, diminish him, but he couldn't bring himself to care, even if it had never been like this before, had never gone this far before, never frightened him like this before, never been as awful as it was awesome, not like before, nothing like before, when he had been augmented, amplified, magnified_

"MINE_!" _

_and he did explode then, burgeoning upwards and downwards and sideways, shrinking inward and outward and clockways._

_There was a stop there, like punctuation written out in a telegram and spoken aloud, a full stop that didn't make sense if one thought about it too closely._

"_No," Harry moaned, a miserable sound, "I don't believe it. You did that on purpose, you bastard!" His ability to speak was restored; nothing was moving anymore. The fury was building in him, impotent only because he was afraid to channel it properly, knowing that as soon as the world started again Voldemort would only make it that much worse. "A memory where I'm drunk, and horny, and far too gone to protest anything, no matter how much I hate you!"_

"_I'm a Dark Lord, my sweet, salacious serpent. And I planned to take full advantage." He leered maliciously, voice so closely mimicking Draco's in macabre mockery that he couldn't bear it, "and the strategic thing to do here is...advance. The Dark Lord doesn't wait on your libido, Harry."_

_He screamed then, and lunged with his hands outstretched into claws, his teeth sharpening into fangs, but the tableau broke, fractured, and he was screaming in pleasurable pain and dolorous delight and he was lunging upwards in anticipation, in rhythm, in wanton zeal. He was aware of his mind only distantly, only enough to know that it kept repeating "don't" and "stop," but he could no longer tell if the two were meant to be together or separate. _

* * *

Narcissa was there when he awoke, gasping and groggy and quite certain that she would kill him now. He'd never been quiet when he had dreams, let alone nightmares, or these new visions that presented himself whenever he closed his eyes and were much to awful to be given a name, because naming something meant acknowledging it. He shuddered to think of what he might have shouted, what she might have heard, and winced to find himself wet and still aching.

She said nothing, just stared at him with an expression that might have been pity or pride or pain, but he couldn't tell if it was one or none or all three. He couldn't tell a lot of things these days.

"Pansy has returned," she remarked abruptly, once again favouring him with a sad smile. "She wanted to be here when," Harry noted that she didn't say if, "you arrived, but a pressing matter required her attention."

"She lives here?" was all Harry could think to ask.

Narcissa nodded smoothly, the gesture elegant, tacitly ignoring how Harry squirmed under her nonjudgemental gaze. "As do a great many others. The Manor has become a sort of... halfway house for those abandoned during the war." Death Eaters she should have said. "No one," she added, not seeming to hurry to redeem herself, but gauging his reaction nonetheless, "who was guilty of any wrongdoing, of course."

"Of course," he replied dryly, amazed that he realised that she hadn't said judged guilty of a crime, only actually guilty of doing anything wrong. And that was a whole different Snitch altogether, wasn't it? All that mattered there was perception, not some outside, supposedly objective truth. Being around a Slytherin was sharpening his mind again. He didn't think that an improvement, especially as it made the pain of Draco's loss dull in equal measure.

He should be suffering, after all he'd done.

"Please, freshen up, and then call for a House Elf to see you to the drawing room." Narcissa rose lightly to her feet, gave the merest hint of a curtsy, and left him alone.

* * *

"Alpha."

Joshua's eyes were far too pale for his dark skin, far too small for his broad face, but their intensity was only increased by their oddness.

"No. I'm not alpha. Not anymore."

One corner of Joshua's lips quirked upwards. "Alpha. You are alpha. It's not a position one can deny."

"I can when I denied my responsibilities! When I disappeared into the Muggle world, not even sparing a thought for your well-being except that-"

"That we'd be safer without you around. We know. But you're wrong. You are alpha still." Harry gave a harsh, barking laugh at that, trying to hide the uneasiness he felt with the absolute assurance in Joshua's expression.

"You'd be better off going back to Lupin. He cares, even if he's an idiot. I don't care and I'm an idiot."

"You care because you are an idiot. You are an idiot because you care. None of that matters. You are alpha, and we still want you." Luke placed a hand on Joshua's shoulder, supporting him, refusing to bare his neck when Harry growled savagely, the lupine instincts that he'd harshly suppressed during

his year of living among Muggles leaping back with brutal ferocity.

"How dare you challenge me? I am your alpha, whelp, and you will submit!" His lips pulled back in a snarl as he snapped his teeth together sharply with an audible crack. The werewolves immediately twisted their heads back and to the side, quietly reassuring him with a "yes, alpha."

_That_ was all it took to send Harry crashing back into his human mind, and he stared at them in wide-eyed betrayal. "You tricked me," he accused, though there was no real malice in it.

"You tricked yourself, fooled yourself into thinking that you were a mere human and could live without magic." Luke met his gaze calmly, his logic sounding far too much like Remus' sophistry (though in a much different vein) than Harry was comfortable with.

"I am. I did. I don't even have a wand anymore."

At that, Pansy appeared from no where, and Harry snarled at her for being late and leaving him to face the pack. "Of course you do, Harry," she stated with a smooth smile. "Yew and phoenix feather, wasn't it?"


End file.
